


Kaboom-Boom

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Bondage, Cock Rings, Collars, Denial, Dirty Jokes, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Femdom, Force Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Masks, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Muscles, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Sexual Humor, Size Kink, collaring, sorta - Freeform, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-23 21:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16167161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: There's no such thing as too much luck when you're out hunting some bounties, open to the idea of finding the Vault and having some diabolical fun, but you're not sure if a living Psycho is more lucky to have around than a dead one. Still, he has his uses. Besides, it's only fair he gets this for nearly killing the two of you, but even still... he's sorta adorable if not batshit insane.Anon asked: -Ooor if you've played Borderlands, one about a Pyscho or Krieg and fem!reader? No one else seems to appreciate them *sadface*A/N: Day 17 of Kinktober for collaring and denial. I only ever played the first Borderlands and that was back when it came out, so the lore here is basically nonexistent. My apologies. I hope you enjoy it anyway, Anon! I loved me some Psycho fuckers. <3





	Kaboom-Boom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



Bare limbs and canvas-coated ass were all warming the scorching Pandora sand when the suicidal Psycho screamed, charging straight for you. The usual thing that was supposed to happen, the whole kaboom-boom thing, didn’t happen. Even though you were cheek to hard metal masked face with a Psycho and his click of a grenade. 

He prematurely screamed ‘YOLO, BABY!,’ shoving the both of you into the warm, soft sand. 

The grenade turned out to be a dud and no sooner did the Psycho mutter a ‘huh’ at his continued existence did you deal him a blow with your slugger, putting him down in the sand, spread out like an angel.

He groaned once, lurched his abdomen like he was gonna hurl and then promptly blacked out beside you. It was just one of those days...

You sat there for a few moments, leaning on an elbow, realizing your luck only to shrug it off like any other near-death experience. After the first several, they were easily shruggable. Considering that this morning you’d been dangling off a cliff edge with one of these mutants singing ‘this little piggy’ while stepping on your fingers one by one, this - right here - was about par for the course. Still, weird fucking day. 

Now you're looking down at a concussed Psycho which is somehow worse than a lucid one judging by the sleep-boner pushing at his orange, tattered pants… and it’s twelve miles from the nearest watering hole. There’s probably a cheap bounty on this one's head which would solve your dry pocket crisis, but you won’t know until you run him through the database and honestly? Judging by the sun and the heat and the miles of caked sand, you’ll be lucky to make it another six miles. You need shelter and some TLC and while you’ve been lucky today in many respects, you can’t help but feel a tad bitter while looking at the muscular… lean lookin’ freak snoring in the sand. 

“Braindead asshat…” you scoff once on your feet and give him a kick of sand across his stomach. The long-limbed, trim Psycho comes to seconds after you finished tightening a spare belt around his neck; looped with a paracord that’s about as strong as teflon and… mmhmm… he’s going nowhere fast. 

He seemed listless anyway after his failed kamikaze boom-boom efforts and to be honest, that was fine by you. Less to worry about while you bring up the map and scout out a place for the night. Thankfully, there’s a dot on your map that looks habitable. It’s not much for a Friday night on the town. It’ll do in a pinch, but boy is it ever a shit heap. The thing is barely a shack on scarcely a cliff with nary a way to get inside. 

The Psycho gurgles ‘honky tonk blues’ around his makeshift collar; arms and feet dragging along the scorching sand behind him but aside from choking every other minute between verses, he’s been a pretty decent captive. Thankfully, they’re all pretty insane, hence their lovely little nicknames but this one had one job, and he didn’t blow it which means he’s probably on standby until he can find another explodey object. 

He’ll find nothing like that on you, although the idea of shoving a hand grenade up his ass doesn’t sound too unwarranted. 

Had you a frag, you bet this asshole would have sniffed it out by now and really given the turn second chances and final meaning. You’ve never been grateful for your nearsightedness, thus reliant on close combat weaponry like your slugger and the combat shotgun which gets to pop a load once in a blue moon, but at least you’re not getting bopped by one of your own pineapples. 

The last time you threw a cocktail, it had accidentally blown up a coop of chickens…

Behind you, the Psycho grates out a filtered chorus; way too noisy for the quiet evening and open landscape. 

“Keep up the song and dance routine, and I’ll tighten your collar… fucking moron…”

He doesn’t hear you or doesn’t register that you’re a threat or doesn’t mind the idea. All in all, he’s not all there, so it’s hard to determine if he’s better off thrown over the cliff or kept for a quick buck later. What’s he worth and is it worth spending the evening stuck in a shack with him and that annoying tune in his throat? Doubtful.

Wait, no. He doesn’t belong in the shack. He belongs outside like the Psycho Suicider asshole he is. Just ‘cause he’s hot… at least with the mask on, doesn’t mean he’s upgraded to shack-level. 

You pause - eyes running down the curl of a hard stomach and narrow hips - tie him off on a guardrail and kick the shack door open. The whole structure rattles but thanks to the packed in sand, it’s more sturdy than it looks. Sturdy enough for two people…

Stop. Don’t think about him like that, you remind yourself, surveying the tiny room. It’s a little sandy, but nothing like you expected. All in all, it’s nearly pristine. With a pop in your lower back, you lean out the tilted door and glare at the hunk of muscle fingering his locked belt-collar.

Down in the grit, the Psycho slumps halfway against the railing, head lolling to the side around the binding on his neck - vertebra making cracks and grunts flooding the modulator - but he’s still singing amidst it all. One nice snap of his neck and he’s back to slapping his thighs and stomach; kicking his heels. 

Fucker is having a jolly good time... 

Putting him out of his misery with a shove off the ledge may actually happen if he keeps that up. You’re not exactly in the right mood for this type of company and there’s something tempting about him that’s not healthy. Better to throw him overboard ‘so to speak’ and be rid of him and those hard, sculpted abs.

“Hey, buddy.” You snap.

He goes slack, head rolling loosely back to stare cracked mask lenses from upside down. You motion two fingers to your eyes and point spanning fingers across the dimming horizon; not fully sure if he’s looking at your or not thanks to the low light.

“Scream ‘pancake’ if you see anyone, or they’ll grind you into goop way before they do me, ‘cause you’re staying out here like the mangy tagalong you are. Don’t think I forgot about the kamikaze crap already.” Honestly, you’d kinda glossed over if in favor of ‘bucking the broncho’ on him… sorta. Maybe. 

“I was soaring...” the Psycho gleams in a hoarse whisper that’s just as husky as it is menacing and well, psychotic. 

“MEGADETH JUICE!” He pronounces loud and sudden, sounding as if he’s a half-dead talk show host welcoming a guest on air. Unfortunately, it’s endearing. Entertaining, you mean… and it’s gonna be a long night if you’re this lonely that a fucking Psycho is getting under your skin without even trying. 

Suicidal Psycho Bomer Buddy starts singing Mr. Sandman interspersed with ‘WILD WACKY INFLATABLE ARM DUDE!’ when there should have been a chorus, and it keeps going long after you’ve decided to ignore him, instead focusing on making the shack livable. The earplugs meant for sandstorms don’t dampen the maniac’s jubilant and super fucking noisy song, nor does the radio do anything to dampen him. After an hour and a half in of poorly recited lyrics, you grab the slugger and head outside. 

The scratchy song and ‘WILD WACKY INFLATABLE ARM DUDE’ bellowing is even louder outside and more annoying. The fact that he’s waving his sinewy arms around while doing ‘the thing’ makes a vein on your neck stand on end. 

This mother fucker, you think. This wacky son of a bitch with his mutated brain, joyously violent tendencies, ripped abs, tapered waist, broad shoulders and- 

Dammit… the way he bucks and shakes against his collar - moving like a well-oiled machine trapped in leather and dead brain cells - flips your switch. Instantly, from a soft four to a red-hot, honking eleven, you wanna fuck this guy.

“Hey!”

The Psycho’s song trails off until he’s quiet; giggling like a throat-burned jester. He hums static and jerks around until the tendons in his neck strain around the makeshift collar. 

“BABY!? Ten cent sausages for sale! GET ‘EM WHILE THEY’RE STILL HOT!”

You wring your slugger around in one hand, glare beneath unbrushed bangs, bounce the bat a couple times and take a step closer. Moisture slips between your thighs with each foot of distance you close. The Psycho tightens all those slopes of tissue like he’s ready to take a couple licks to the stomach - as if he wants it because they’re all fucked in the head - but instead… you're gonna try something a little unorthodox. The thought of bumping uglies with him, solidified in your mind thanks to his mention of sausages, starts a spider crack of ideas and you’re suddenly more horny-angry than angry-angry.

To be fair, the both of you are out in the middle of nowhere land and no one's gonna know you’ve sunk low enough to fuck a Psycho? There are few opportunities to drain the tension, and if it’s not a quickie at a bar, then it’s your own fingers. But that’s Pandora for you.

This Psycho is… well, he’s psychotic for sure, but there’s a quick way to make sure he’s interested/willing before thinking about this much further. 

As the kamikaze idiot taps his heels, stares through broken matte glass and digs his fingers in the sand under his ass, you unbuckle the shoulder armor around your ribs and above your tits. The leather harness sags - undone belts hanging against your sides - as you hike up the pockmarked canvas shirt a few feet away, giving the Psycho boy an eyeful of bare tits and pale stomach.

“Mama Mia,” he wheezes; sucking in a breath like you slugged him in the solar plexus. The way his bandaged finger joints and fucked up hands jerk into his lap makes your nipples stiffen. He bangs a fist against his chest as if dislodging a loogie and coughs behind the mask before erupting in a fit of manic laughter. 

“Fair enough,” you mutter, accepting the reaction for a dude that likes what he sees. The rising tent in his red canvas trousers acts as further confirmation when all he does is giggle in frantic rotations between humor and perverted groaning; aiming eye ports at your naked breasts. 

Before the Psycho can ruin his chances of getting some action, you drop your shirt and walk back to the shack, hell-bent on making this last more than dynamite with a short fuse. If he’s as likely to pop a load early like he would pull the pin on a grenade, then this is gonna require some forethought. Plus, like hell you’re gonna risk the fallout of mutant cum inside you… especially not this far out from ‘civilization.’

Outside the shack, while rifling through your pack, the Psycho starts chanting the words ‘boobies’ like he’s at some party billions of miles away on another fucking planet, and he’s goading a buddy into something incredibly stupid. The similarities are not entirely lost on you, but this is more fun than tuning into the radio static, or staring at the rusty walls until sleep happens… or doesn’t. Besides, a little cinch and knot under the cock and balls, and it won’t matter if he’s packing a ten-cent or ten-thousand-dollar sausage in those pants. You’ll get off one way or another.

The roll of medical tape you stumble upon will work better than your boot strings and so, with a lecherous grin, you kick out the bedding and fluff up the drawstring bag of semi-clean clothes like a makeshift pillow. You’re not a monster after all, and if he’s gonna get used and abused - willingly of course - then the least you can do is give your would be murderer a pillow to lay his head on while you ride the living fuck out of him.

He’s still chanting under his breath, except now it’s ‘tiggle biddies’ while double fist pumping like he’s on a pull-up bar. It’s… sorta cute, but not. Fanciful emotions flutter in your gut while watching the moron in action, but you’re way more focused on the tight curl of his hard stomach and all those lean back muscles to worry too much about his mental health… or yours for that matter.

In his mindless, one-side goading, the Psycho barely notices the leash tugging around his throat while you untie him from the post. He sure as shit chokes around the belt-collar when you drag him inside the shack, though; wedging dirty fingers between leather and hot, beating flesh so he can filter in a huge gaping breath before passing out. 

One errant leg kick sends his steel-toed boot into the side of the shed. 

For one long moment, the two of you pause, expecting the structure to collapse on top of the both of you, but when it doesn’t you're back to dragging him over the bedding, and he’s back to kicking and gurgling around the collar. It’s not as bad as it sounds because he’s also laughing and keeps reaching down to his pants as if not knowing if he wants to breathe or undo the zipper. 

Once he’s plopped down in position - head only slightly resting on the pillow of clothes - do you step on his stomach, brace yourself and tie his leash around a jutting piece of rebar. It’ll work even if he goes apeshit, which he’s not right now. Right now, he’s half rolling around in the blanket while grumbling at the clasp over his bulge. The heavy wheezing beneath his modulator sounds frightening - leaking mad giggles - but he’s obviously way more concerned to getting his dick wet than killing you. 

While he calls his zipper a ‘mechanical obstruction of justice,’ you prep a sedative in case shit goes wrong, i.e. an empty bottle of grain alcohol that takes two long pulls to finish off. 

The long, rusty sound of unteething metal draws a glance to his lower body that currently sporting a tight abdomen and one very, very decent sized cock.

He gives it a mean stroke, pinching the soft wrinkle of foreskin before smoothing it down beneath the cap of a fat mushroom. It’s hot. 

Dammit, why does this one have to be so muscular and lean and not… mutated looking? Even his arms look about the same size. He has all his fingers… and A-plus dick that’s just a nice to look at as the rest of him. Sitting on it is gonna be fun, you think with a low leer and buzzing alcohol already gettin’ cozy behind your eyes. 

He was sexy sober. A little tipsy, and he’s god-like. 

With the empty bottle set to the side, outside his reach but within yours, you kick off your boots, remove your knee braces, socks, and leather pants at a rate of speed that would have embarrassed were you not soaked and mildly intoxicated. Underwear was a no go today and so was the bra so one shrug of the shoulder armor and a slide of the shirt leaves you as naked as a newborn. 

The Psycho makes ‘vroom vroom’ noises, reaches down to grapple his dick and starts slapping it against his stomach; tapping it with sticky, hard sounds. He stretches his other arm out as if to grab at your ankle, grunting and choking himself out against the collar in a mad need to get a hold of you but one step back and he’s out of bounds. A kick to his hand makes him snarl, rear forward again and start trying to rip the belt away from his throat. For a second a nervous sweat grows over your naked skin, but that’s a latchkey belt… and not even a Psycho mutant could break it, that is… if the leather and stitches hold.

Unsure what else to do other than smack him with the empty bottle and knock him out, you settle on a nasty verbal threat. “If you don’t behave, I’m gonna blow your fucking head off, and neither of us wants that, now do we?”

The Suicidal Psycho heaves - chest expanding until every muscle is stretched and covered in a shiny layer of perspiration, clotted with sand. No, he doesn’t want that, at least not right now. The fingers trying to tear at the collar freeze. 

With a nudge to his ankle, he deflates; fingers still wrapped inside the collar, but unmoving.

“Good,” you nod, wondering how the fuck you’re gonna get medical tape strapped around his sack and dick before he catches wise. He’s stronger than you and there’s always the chance your luck will run out just in time to get manhandled and fucked over by a Psycho with a fat cock. 

“You wanna get your dick wet, right?”

He swings his masked head up and down, “YES! DROWN MEEEeeeeeee….eeeee…”

“Good, then do me a solid and stay still. This is gonna make you feel really good. Say it with me… Really-

“REALLY GUUUUUHD!” He barks; stomach quivers while he rakes short, dirty nails across the tight hills. 

“Exactly,” you pat him along the strap that sweeps over his smooth scalp, securing the scuff of his mask to his face until he filters out a giddy wheeze and opens his legs up for you. It wouldn’t have taken very long to tie him off with the tape, but one good look at the ‘sausage’ he’s packing stops you brain-dead for a moment. It’s aimed straight up with a bend, knotted below the head with folded foreskin and drooling precum. Even if it’s a little too veiny, the curve and girth on it is mouthwatering. 

“... very… very glad I didn’t cave your skull in,” you lament with a whisper, uttering a soft ‘fuck me’ while lifting his warm sack from the heated trousers. 

An actual rubber ring would have worked better, but the medical tape does an excellent job. Keeping an eye on him and the hands that knock down his chest, you coil the tape tight around sac and cock base until the tip starts blushing rocket-red and voila! Your entertainment for the evening is wrapped up nicely, collared, leashed and throbbing heartily. 

So what if the Psycho is singing ‘cherry pie’ while you straddle his hips? The point is, his cock is big and standing tall, and even though he could snatch you up and throw you beneath him, all the Psycho does is fist his cock and veer it towards your soaked cunt. Just the initial stretch and following first inch of thick cockhead feels like your own personal slice of gold. 

The strained wheeze and uttered ‘cherry pie’ below says he’s got similar thoughts. 

“Super glad that grenade was a dud… fuck, like… so happy right now,” you chime in and slide down a tower of dick until your ass touches the dirty canvas. The Psycho’s dumb ‘oldies’ song suddenly turns into a stifled sob and right there, nestled so deep, his cock pulsates. 

He’s nice and fat and thick and so fucking hard. It’s like fucking a living dildo; warm and twitching and attached to a collared, submissive idiot with a body that’s drool-worthy. 

You slip your hands up his stomach, over his shoulders and relish the way his half-gloved, half-bandaged hands reach forward to squeeze your ass and caress your hips like you're a shiny nugget of wet gold wrapped around his cock. He doesn’t fully realize what the tape means for him, but he will shortly.

“Squeeze my meat popsicle! RIDE IT!!”

If it didn’t feel so good to do just as he shouts, you’d have rolled your eyes and kicked him to the curb, but he’s lucky he feels so fucking amazing. 

“Shut up,” you tell him instead of getting up, choosing to focus on working yourself back and forth over all this sweet dick. You’re gonna get off as many times as you goddamn well can before he gets wise to the cock collar. 

Already halfway there, you realize with teeth in your lower lip. Almost so stuffed and assaulted with knocking, sliding bliss that you’ll finish soon. 

“Damn,” you curse quietly; the sound lost against his mechanical snarls and gruff, comical howls like he’s the one riding a bull and not the other way around. It’s a bit too good to do more than move and whimper and cool all your muscle into a rocking rotation. 

Screaming and mewling are for fast fucks bent over a bar house sink, not riding a Psycho in a shack… especially not when he’s behaving himself so well. 

Even though his muscles are taut around the arms and shoulders - veins bulging and muscles twitching as you fuck him into the bedding - he’s just barely dragging your cunt over his cock. He’s a good boy… and maybe you’ll throw him a bone with your done. 

Maybe…

… because that pre-orgasmic ache starts fluttering beneath your navel and thanks to the hard valley of muscle below his dick, it’s like rubbing your clit over three flat fingers. You can’t recall the last time a fuck felt this good.

Psycho boy nearly ruins the moment by starting up a new, modular-timbre song, “Spin me right ‘round, baby! Right ‘round! Like ah-“ 

Thankfully, his overzealous hip motions inch his body further from the slack of his leash enough that he chokes around the collar. Sharp, jerking movements from your hips, pull his slim ass across the blankets, further silencing him. The the leash creaks - tight - and his fingers are back around his throat, trying to make a gap big enough to breathe through. 

A little sadism is forgivable, you think, slightly relishing the quiet gagging as you mash your ass down in the concave warmth between his hips; feeling the bulging tip of swollen dick hit nerve endings like a fucking jackhammer. 

You can only fuck down on him, watching him struggle to breathe, for a couple moments before moral consciousness takes over. There’s no stopping, but you throw your hips forward until he’s thrust back over the pillow; stuttering down oxygen. The Psycho gulps air through the filter on his metal mask, wheezing like he’s sucking sand before his chest strains and his breathing returns to normal. 

For the first time since you spotted him charging you in the afternoon sand, his black eye ports fuzz over with blue light. Cracks in the glass over his left eye leak slivers of gleam. It reminds you of someone waking up after getting knocked the fuck out. The obvious addition to his vision - rebooting for whatever reason - makes him fall quiet, tipping his head back to watch the way your tits bounce while rocking above him. 

As if the Psycho is seeing you for the first time, he takes himself two hard handfuls of ‘tiggle biddies’ with a low moan and that… that’s what makes you cum. Sorta. The big dick and clitoral stimulation totally help, but it’s also thanks to a stuttering, willingly helpless Psycho who’s fondling your nipples and molding your breasts like you’d previously think someone like him would only deliver a grenade.

“Cheezzzzzzeeeeey…” he hisses as if he’s saying something else profound. 

Tight, unused cunt muscles clench and suck around his sized cock. He grunts, knocks his hips up - hard - and starts fucking into your orgasming body like he’s been struck by a bolt of energy. Moisture flows, making the slick of skin between your groins grow wetter, hotter and though it’s a bit too much, you go with it and fuck him faster through your orgasm; holding down weak little sobs until those come flooding out like the pleasure.

His fingerless gloves rake down your tits, your stomach, and dent in the bend of your waist. His grip hurts. Nerves resurface despite your shivering muscles but he holds on tight and starts slapping you down over his cock instead of what you’d feared. It stings, but that’s only half of it… the rest of fucking epic.

The pain burns down between your thigh, and though the Psycho is not self-aware enough to realize you’re into it as much as the bursts of bliss, he does it faster; harder. At this point, he’s trying to cum. It’s almost sad to see the standing tendons of his throat and shoulders and the hard, unmoving clench of his torso while hip thrusting and yanking your cunt to meet each piston of engorged cock.

He’s not gonna cum...

“Having some,” you hiccup and blush at your stutter, “... trouble?!”

“Shooting for the moon! Neil Armstrong, here I CUM!!!”

You squeal out a laugh, unable to contain it and make a loud, obnoxious sound of pleasure through another blistering orgasm. There’s no solace knowing that the Psycho seems totally unaware you’ve cum again in his pointless search for release. Scratchy, euphoric heat fills every crevice of tension that you can’t help but think it’s worse than death to deprive this asshat of the same bliss he’s giving you.

Eh, your brain retorts. The fucker tried to blow you both to smithereens. He deserves more than some harmless orgasm denial. Besides, you can go for a third before it starts hurting. The fucking is brutal and your breasts ache with itchy warmth from bouncing so hard. Your cervix is gonna bruise, but it’s worth it for just… one… more...

The Psycho snorts in filtered agony; arching his whole body into yours in a desperate search for completion. The taut tendons in his neck strain further outwards, creating hard shadows down his throat and collar bones. 

“Just a little more, buddy,” you gasp, letting yourself move with his frantic, energetic motions. Unforgiving fists clench around your waist like a belt with a lock and key as he bucks and fucks up into your soaked cunt like he’s stabbing someone to death. 

“Fuck… fuck- fuck!” Too much… 

Not enough.

The Psycho howls like a wolf, barks like a dog and starts choking himself on the collar in his pursuit for pleasure while your thighs shake around his thin hips until you hurdle into a third climax; running right up your spine. Thrice times is all your body can handle. Three explosions that DON’T paint your insides out in the sand - that’s it. 

Drool-worthy euphoria is still baking your brain while Mr. Suicider, with the ripped body and cracked eyeports full of focusing sight, huffs, and puffs but doesn’t cum no matter how hard he tries. He’s straining as if to see between your thighs where his dick is most certainly being well fucked but isn’t blowing. The tension coming off him is one big ‘WHAT THE GLORIOUS FUCK?!’

Hilarious, you think, ragdolling through the long, fading wave of bliss. 

It’s even funnier to watch him fumble around your hips, obviously too braindead to realize fast enough that you’re not getting up to immediately slap back down on his cock, but are actually leaving him high and dry. Figuratively of course. In reality, he’s pretty soaked and so are you.

“No!” He bumbles, trying to drag his short nails through the swell of your sweaty hips - trying to get a good grip - in hopes of snatching you back down. Halfway to your feet and your knees give out, but you flop over your lumpy backpack and can't stop the woozy giggle as you narrowly avoid a mouthful of sand; bracing your palms over the dirty metal floor. Feverish heat breaks out over your skin in the wake of three full-bodied orgasms and the sudden empty cunt that’s still leaking softly within eyeline of the Psycho.

The mutant looks momentarily stunned with his hands mid-curl as if trying to wish you back in his fists.

“Now that’s fucking sausage…” you comment on the red rocket of cock standing straight up like a torpedo of trapped blood and man meat.

“NOPE! NO!” He laments loud enough the shack vibrates.

“Calm down… big baby…”

“Don’t take my sunshine away!” He bellows, making the grabby hands while pulling your ankles out of reach and promptly roll your ass over your pack until your elbows give out as your knees had. There’s only so much energy left in your body for sitting. 

The sudden sensations that shoot up your ass and cunt hurt, but it’s mainly one of those awesome aches; fulfilling. It’s almost a shame the idiot doesn’t feel like this because it’s pretty awesome, way better than a boring evening inside the shack by yourself with nothing but your fingers and sand crickets. 

Sadly, all good things have their end. You’re done with him for now. Maybe, if he doesn’t scream and sing and jerk off the second you-

A drop of warm cum hits your foot while you’d been busy basking and being selfish. The glob leaks between your toes and just as you realize what’s happening, another squirt flies across the blanket and a third jettison hits your shin. You blink, lift your lashes and watch the Psycho beat off like he’s charging a pneumatic rifle; neck craned forward and hidden gaze plastered across your nakedness. 

The medical tape lays scrunched up over a thigh. 

“Ya know,” you muse, glaring as he grunts - hips bouncing a cherry-tipped dick through two tight fists, “I feel like the last thing you deserve is to bust a nut after nearly blowing me up earlier.”

“Sweet. ReLEASING!” The Psycho gasps with breathless glee. 

A final sad squirt bubbles out the tip of distended cockhead, sliding grossly down bandaged knuckles and scabby fingers. Gross, but hot. Sadly, you’ve always been a bit of a softie and seeing this dude wring his foreskin between thumb and finger while muttering ‘pretty lady’ and ‘sweet treasure trove’ hits you in the gut.

Watching him stroke his deflating cock with longing and relief, chin in a palm, you sigh, “All this means is I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you again in the morning and if you thought this was rough, wait until I use the bootstraps...”

The Psycho digs his heels into the sandy, steel flooring, pumps his hips and gurgles around the collar until he’s choking out something about ‘deli meats and custard cream.’

It’s all amusing and kinda not as unflattering as it should be after the previous compliments, but you can chalk that up to the endorphins for now. Tomorrow, he’ll be less appealing, and then you can turn his head in for some credits and a couple of beers. 

Or… maybe you’ll ride that stupid dick again come sunrise and keep him collared for the foreseeable future. Who the fuck knows. 

“KING ME!”

Eh, or maybe you’ll throw him off that cliff after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please leave me a comment letting me know what worked for you or what didn't.
> 
> Thank you to FleshDust for betaing! <3
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